


Pot of Quarters

by Dawnwind



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:00:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minimal stakes poker--who gets the winnings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pot of Quarters

"So the trailboss hires this tenderfoot ain't never been in a drive." The man to Heyes' left was a talker, adding another layer of noise onto the saloon familiars: out of tune piano, clink of bottle against glass, and the scrape of spurs on a sawdust covered floor.

Heyes was in his element. If only the cards would play fair. He'd lost two hands out of three, and that just wasn't fitting. He regarded his hand speculatively. A five of clubs, the eight and nine all in the same suit—if he tossed the queen of hearts and two of diamonds…? A flush if he was lucky, a straight flush could win. Appeared that he was going to have to break his own cardinal rule—never draw to an inside straight. 

"This cityboy is yelling "gee ha, varmint!" to the dogies, and the bull decides he ain't too happy with the treatment," the man continued, throwing two bits into the pot.

_Big spender._

"Bull comes for him, going right for his cojones, but the trailboss pulls him out of harm's way in the nick…"

Filtering out the story, Heyes put in three bits, just to be neighborly, and passed the two cards over to the dealer.

The Kid looked up briefly, amusement in his blue eyes, and bet an entire dollar.

That woke Heyes up considerable. Kid must have something spectacular in his hand, an ace-in-the-hole? A full house? His poker face was impeccable after the quick smirk. 

Heyes knew how to read the Kid. He didn't bluff much, and when he bet, it was for a good reason.

The dealer slid over two cards, filling in Heyes' straight—six of diamonds and seven of spades. Not a flush, but usable. He added twenty-five cents to the pot.

The taciturn player on Heyes' right shrugged. "Too rich for my blood." 

"Tenderfoot says, 'jess ain't my day!' and falls into the crick," the storyteller finished. 

The dealer roared with laughter.

Storyteller tugged on his mustache. He regarded the pot, shook his head and folded his cards. Which left Heyes and the Kid, head to head. The dealer and the other men faded into insignificance. 

Kid placed his last quarter into the pile on the table, a grin lurking in his eyes, but his cheeks were as smooth and somber as a preacher's. He held his cards close, tucked in the palm of his gun hand. 

Was the Kid bluffing him? Couldn't be. Unless he had high cards, could he beat this decent, if unremarkable straight? Kid didn't have any more money in front of him. Should Heyes push him or play out?

"Call." He watched Kid's eyes, one thing Curry couldn't control. 

"Three of a kind!"

"Straight." Heyes couldn't stop his dimples from popping, the joy of playing with the Kid a gift of the heart.

Eager to reveal his cards, the Kid laid them out. "Queens over jacks!" He shined, incandescent, and raked in his cash. 

Heyes rolled his eyes, happy but broke.


End file.
